


Sidereal Residues

by Symmet



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Modern Girl in Thedas, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5183540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Symmet/pseuds/Symmet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fade is a colossal consciousness that is interwoven throughout many universes...and it doesn't much appreciate being torn in two only for someone to decide they might as well shove it back together again.</p><p>So it plucks her and places her. So that she may help.</p><p>She can only hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sidereal Residues

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea...  
> //shakes fist

For the simplest moment she doesn't know who she is.

She simply _is_ , buoyed along in the soft, insistent current of something far greater. It caresses her mind and she wonders not what but that anything exists at all. It feels familiar and resonnates deep within, like coming home after getting lost.

What is this called?

A thought curls around in her mind. It knows a word she would call it.

Fade. She would call it the Fade.

A moment of deep satisfaction fills her. It feels right - fitting - familiar and unknown all at once. But it is not unknown. She knows what the Fade is.

And then suddenly, she falls from her floating, to white ground. She knows the Fade. She know Thedas. And beyond that, she thinks.

The Fade brushes against her again and sends her an image of a lonely being, curled around a stick.

 _No, no_. She thinks, _a staff. That is a staff. He is a mage._

_He is an elf._

The Fade presses a questioning tendril gently along her mind.

She knows him too.

Something nags at the back of her mind, but before she can pay it any attention, the Fade pulls it away, pushes it back. Pieces of her, she realizes. But she is not worried. The Fade only means she will not need them.

She sees a wavering image of the elf again.

The Fade wants her to go to him.

 _Yes_ , she agrees, _he needs her. She knows him - she understands. She wants to help._

So she feels her will and exerts it, which gives her form and form gives her movement and sight. The Fade is all around her, and yet she is distinctly aware of it retracting - the vibrant part of it filled with intent does at least, like a finger pulling away even as she walked along the stomach. That feels like too small a comparison, but she must find _him_. No time to wonder on the Fade.

What is his name again?

The Fade hushes her questions and ushers her along.

She finds him in a dream where the world is still and calm. At first it seems mostly greys and whites, but when she focuses on the landscape around them, she sees the subtle blues and greens and browns, fading into the white of unknowing beyond. He is by a pond, not waiting for her, she doesn’t think, or if he was, he hadn’t intended to. Perhaps he had intended to contemplate his future or meditate on his being.

The Fade had known better, had set him aside and away where she could reach him.

Her dreams barely start at the curl of fog, but neither cool nor wet, and as she pads forward, the small island sectioned off fades into being.

He is a man when she finds him.

And she, for whatever reason, is a wolf. It had seemed natural when she took a form. But now the far away thoughts murmur that she is not a _wolf_ , she is a _girl_.

What is a girl?

The Fade hushes her and she continues.

Then she feels him.

A part of her is watching herself from outside of her body, from his eyes as she walks up to him, even as she gazes up at him over a snout. In her mind it is like watching a split screen, seeing as he sees her and as she sees him. It is not nearly as disconcerting as she would have expected, a distant part notes.

She is a broad wolf, fur not black but dark, deep brown, so much so that it should be black, and yet it isn’t. She knows the form was not made for _her_ \- not really. She would not be a big black wolf with golden eyes, when in truth she is slight and brown eyed - isn't she? - but the reality of who she is feels distant and far away - it is being held back. There is no human girl, not now, not here. Or there is, but she’s not important for just this moment. She knows she is not what he sees, not a wolf, not a spirit, but that she has to be that anyways, and for the moment, she isn’t the girl at all.

He watches her.

There is the Spirit who looks like a wolf, and the Wolf who looks like a man.

His form is relaxed, a fine cloak encasing his lower body from where it had slipped comfortably from his shoulders to pool in his lap, spilling onto the ground. He sitting on a stone beside the pool, leaning on an intricate but simple staff. She thinks it looks like that because she wants it too. No engravings, no accessories or gems or baubles. Just thin, pale wood, twisting up elegantly like the vallaslin of Mythal.

She thinks he has loved Mythal for a long time, and he is not reminded of slaves by its form, but the woman whose protection they were under. Either way, he does not seem to mind.

Or it _is_ his staff, and she simply wishes it was shaped by her intent. She knows it is far too fancy for a simple hedge mage apostate. So before the Inquisition, or after. But he does not hold a heady weight to his shoulders, the kind that comes with finding a world of seemingly tranquil beings only to discover they were real People. That he would choose to destroy them anyways.

Yes, it must be _Before_ , she decides. That is why she is here.

The Fade does not want to be ripped open again. It sent her, now an envoy between worlds, to try and help him, to guide him right before inevitably the Fade was forced to stop him. The only soul in this world who knew what would happen. Who knew his path as well as all of the others. People he had not met yet.

He likely hadn’t even had Corypheus guided to his orb. Not yet, anyways.

The Fade will let that happen, even if the Breach screams and the rifts burn. For the rest of it. To help the rest of the story smooth out, curl into life and the dreaming, for balance.

The Fade. A part of the far away exclaims. _It is alive_.

So is lyrium, she argues in her mind, why is it surprising the Fade lives, too?

 _It is nothing like lyrium._ The far away voice exclaims, but quiets down.

It is a distant, fleeting consciousness - massive. Too massive to comprehend, so she doesn’t, just as one does not attempt to count all the individual hues of the sky. One simply passes underneath it, and acknowledges its protection. Or passes fleetingly within its shadow, oblivious, unaware of what lay above.

Does even he know? She would not have known if it had not guided her here. No, he cannot know.

He would have never severed it, then, to create the Veil - he would have never split it in half.

It had let this happen too - to stop the Evanuris from tearing the world apart completely. The Fade weighed its ability to survive against the destruction, and allowed itself to be unmade.

Now Its wound has healed. Life had adapted, painfully, achingly, but still managed.

And now he meant to undo it again, to force the two jagged edges together.

But _It_ does not work like that - just as flesh doesn’t work like that. You cannot reattach a limb after it has been severed for countless millennia. It will be too painful, too unnatural.

She wonders if the Inquisitor was really using the mark like a needle - drawing energy through the seams in the Veil to create stitches to mend the rifts.

Inquisitor. The title niggles in her mind. Important. Not real - not yet. Or it has been? Knowledge begins to cascade softly in her mind until the Fade brushes it away so that it doesn't distract her.

It doesn’t _really_ matter, she does not think, not right now. These are trivial, far away thoughts. If there are answers, she is not meant to know them now. And that is fine too. She can have simple thoughts and be content in this moment. Her purpose is Other. And as she draws closer the thoughts tapper off and disperse from her mind like the mist.

He does not startle when she draws near, but just barely inclines his head, tilts it towards her so he can better watch her approach, one eyebrow delicately drawing up.

He is wary, but not overly so. He sees a Spirit, unknown in nature, but wearing a familiar guise - to actual kinship or the desired effect of pretending it, he cannot be sure. What kind of wolf, indeed. His unasked question hangs between them - he is asking himself, though, not her, because he thinks to puzzle it out.

Spirit or demon?

When she is close enough, just enough that he is about to open his mouth and ask - demand - her intent, that she halt, she stops and sits placidly on her haunches, watching him.

His gaze never fully commits to her, but she knows he can see from the corner of his eye how her gaze burns golden and unwavering, never blinking or distracted.

He is halfway actually unconcerned by her and the other half managing only to feign it. As far as it would seem for simple eyes. But she wears his eyes, too, in her mind, and feels he is distinctly unsure whether to be unnerved or not - as well as refusing to be, even if he should.

 _Pride_. She chides, and the thought mists between them in the air, sounding uncharacteristically severe. She reigns it in. That is not why she is here - not what the Fade brought her here to do. That was not _who_ the Fade wanted her to be.

A name. She knows his name - or one of them.

A softer one, more worn, more humble, but meaning the same, settles on her mind - _Solas_.

He watches, only starting to frown, she can feel it more from his mind than see it in his muscles, so she begins.

“Why must you end it?”

He stiffens, straightens, eyes going cold. He controls in his reaction after a moment, at least, deciding she is no longer a threat unknown. Nevertheless he is no longer quite as relaxed.

 _Curiosity_ She feels him decide, and lets him fall into that assumption. The Fade wills her here, and she is content to oblige, if she can help. She does not want the world to suffer, especially not him - Pride. Pride, who suffers for all. Perhaps he knows no other way, in the end.

Perhaps he does not think he deserves any other way.

It makes her sad. The far away - the girl - agrees before going silent again.

He looks her over.

 _Spirits are creatures intrinsically tied to emotion, yet still bound by certain logic. The easiest way to fend off Curiosity was to answer enough questions that it exhausted you as a resource for knowledge or became bored._ She feels him know this, and feels him wonder if perhaps she - it - was drawn to him because deep down, he asked himself these questions, and it manifested in order to try and help.

In a manner, perhaps, she supposes he is not entirely wrong. She is not a spirit, not really, but she can try. For him she can always try.

“Because it was a mistake.” His answer is calm.

“Why?”

The Fade hums with approval. She discovers it - a weapon. She does not wield it with precision - not yet. The Fade had not prepared her for her role, but she realizes she has been handed an instrument, and sets about beginning to play it. He is a man of reason. Questions. She is here to ask questions. Hope to find the right one. Have faith that she will.

That is why the Fade chose her.

He considers her, “Because in the end, they suffered for nothing. It would have been better under the Evanuris.”

She tilts her head, “Do you believe that?”

His lips thin, “Yes.”

Her tone is not sarcastic, but unconvinced, “ _Really_?"

He scowls, “Yes.”

“All the world would have suffered. How much would they have destroyed before they built it back up? And then destroyed again? And then built back up?”

He frowns, and she has to give him credit, for letting this wisp of a Spirit - or so he thinks - demand questions from him - personal, aching ones, and still consider actual, logical answers to appease her - it.

“Has this world not suffered? At least then the People would be whole, not the tattered remains, slaves and servants and traveling _nomads_. At least they would have a home. The Evanuris would at least fix their messes. The same cannot be said for these Blights.”

She keeps her tone neutral, inquisitive but not prying, “They were slaves, servants, and nomads long before Arlathan fell. Do you think your People deserve to live more than all People?”

That draws him up short, for a moment, the concept that The People are not the only people, that there are humans and dwarves and perhaps even Qunari, too, that deserve to live, to thrive. He is operating under the notion that she pulls these questions from deep within his subconsciousness, and he is so devoted to his duty to his People that it throws him off.

But the truth is, she thinks he has always been devoted to _all_ people, everywhere. Any who were weak, or lost, or who suffered the abuses of those in power.

Even as he opens his mouth to ask for clarification, she tries again, with a leading question, because of _course, of course, he hasn’t met them yet, he doesn’t _know_ there are other people, not really_ ,“Why are they not people?”

He narrows his eyes, but she keeps her gaze level with his, open, waiting.

“They are reduced. All of them, not just the elves - in body and mind both. I was a fool. The Fade is a part of us as much as the Sky or Earth, and I took it away with little regard for the consequences.”

Actual curiosity perks her interest, “You didn’t plan for what would happen?”

His severe expression falters, confused, “Well, yes…”

“Did you warn the People?”

“Only some - it was not enough…”

“How much time could you have given and how many could you have told without letting the Evanuris find out your plan?” She wondered.

His shoulders slump, “Not much, and not many.” He conceded.

“But you tried to tell as many as you could anyways.” She guessed.

“It was not enough.” The defeat curls in her chest for a moment - but only that - before it whisks away. Curiosity feels despair only when it cannot glean answers. She is getting them. She will get more.

“How do you know?” It is a little more belligerent than usual, and his gaze snaps up to scrutinize her, but she only looks on innocently.

Still he almost snorts until he answers with a sigh, “Because I could not save the People.”

“They have endured. You meant to save them from the Evanuris. You did.”

“They should have _thrived_ , not - not this. Not ‘ _endured_ ’.” He says bitterly.

“Could you have saved them from themselves?” She says very softly.

His eyes flicker up to hers, and they both note the moment he realizes, comprehension dawning on his features.

In elvish, he hisses at her, “ _You are not Curiosity_.” Almost as if an accusation. The words are foreign in the air and around her ears, but in her head they take meaning.

“ _No._ ” She agrees.

He turns away from her then, his dismissal clear. He looks as if he is done answering questions, and she can feel part of his mind cut itself off from her perception - _Ah! So that is how spirits feel minds! Fascinating! She hadn’t even realized_ \- but she resolutely hangs onto the rest and feels gears begin to warm and turn in her mind.

So _this_ is why she is here.

“ _But I am still trying to help._ ” She says. He does not answer.

She walks away, into the mist.

But she has the dim image of her retreating form, and knows he turned to watch her leave.

 

~

 

The dream doesn’t end - not for her. She knows it will slip away from her when she wakes, so the Fade must have her do it all together, but in pieces.

For him, at least. He will be waking.

But soon enough she is returning. Or that is how it feels. Time is different here. A pause for her may be days for him.

He frowns slightly when he sees her approach, and now fully turns his head to watch. She repeats the process of walking just shy of too close and then settling into her familiar sitting position. He is much the same, again relaxing by the pool. Her sense of his mind has dimmed considerably. He is shielding himself, which sends a small pang through her. Ah well, at least he does not look completely hostile as she sits.

“You have returned.” He notes.

She blinks.

“What are you?” He finally asks, carefully, at least with some consideration for perhaps his rudeness last time.

“I could not say.” She says, “But do not fear Deceit. I mean to ask more questions then answer.”

He frowns, “Why?”

A part of her laughs to think how despite this he is the one asking questions of her now. Perhaps it is only fair - an even exchange.

“Because I want to know.” She says, failing to keep the slightest hint of affection from her voice.

He tilts his head at her, but accepts this. Spirits, unless Deceit, have little inclinations towards lying. That makes this easier, at least - for her. He will not question her motives past a certain point.

She notices the far away thoughts - where the parts that made up the girl had been held back - has started to seep back towards her. She thinks much more strongly now.

So they have limited time, it seems.

“I did not ask earlier,” She says, “ _How_ are they not people?"

He squints at her, “They are reduced.”

“How can you tell?”

The emotional equivalent of arms being thrown up in annoyance mists in the air.

“They fear magic and have grown small. They cannot share emotion as we did.”

“So because they are different, they cannot be People?” She asks, keeping sarcasm from her voice. It is easy, for now. She wants him to see, to recognize his own errors. Sarcasm will not help - will only alienate.

“It is not that simple. Some are cut away from the Fade - completely. Most are born that way.”

 _Dwarves_ , she thinks, _he is speaking of dwarves_.

“The fact that they can be made Tranquil suggests they have emotions to lose, which means they are People.”

“Not to the same extent. Never as much as we were before.”

“And this is…bad?” She asks, fully curious.

He sighs, dipping his head as a hand rises to press against his brow, “They are remnants of a glorious people, knowing none of their culture, having lost their lifespan and their magic, far worse off than when I slept. They are a reminder of my mistakes. I failed the People, and this is what has become of them. I must save them.”

“You mean undo all that they are.” She says.

He stills, “If I must.”

“You do not think that by virtue of having managed to survive despite all odds, they deserve to live - to flourish?”

He scowls, “This world is an abomination - a culmination of my failures. They are not _flourishing_. To undo them would be to relieve them of all the suffering I caused.”

“A mercy killing?” She asks.

A growing frown mars his face, twisted with unhappiness.

His answer is sharp, “No."

“Then what is it?”

“Making sure they never have to suffer in the first place.” Solas answers resolutely.

“You say it like it is a gift, but I do not think they would thank you for it, nor do I think you would pretend so when you carry the guilt in your chest.” She says.

His mouth becomes a flat line and he looks away in calm anger.

She notices the faint color of the world begin to bleach away, vibrancy fading with each passing moment. For some reason that fills her with dread.

“You think you are better than them.” She says softly.

The color stops fading, and she feels the warmth of his shock.

“No.” He says, but they know, unwittingly, it is a lie.

She feels a tug from far off - a chime in her gut. The Fade warns her, _he will wake soon._

One last question then.

“Is that how the Evanuris felt about the slaves?” She wondered.

He turned towards her in surprise but the dream had already shaken away.

She waits.

 

~

 

When she next sees him, color has seeped back into the world - perhaps even a bit more vibrant than it was before. He is looking at the water, contemplatively.

Perhaps the two are connected.

He looks up from his gaze into the water only when she has settled across from him.

Some faint determination shows in his face, and he collects himself.

“It stands to reason, that they are people, if far removed from what they could be. If I undo my mistake, they will never have experienced it in the first place.” He says resolutely.

“Is it better that way?”

He blinks, baffled for only a moment, but the spirit of an argument has come upon him. _He is ready this time_ , a voice of hers thinks.

“It will be as if they never experienced the pain.” He said.

“Will it also mean they never survived it? Is that fair?” She winces internally the moment the last part slips out.

“Nothing is fair.” Solas says, but it is with an air of agreement, and not resentment, as if he wishes it were not so, “As for surviving it, yes, I suppose I understand that it reduces the meaning of such an endeavor, but is it truly better than never having suffered at all?”

She thinks of Leliana, in the destroyed and twisted world of Corypheus when everyone had been harvested for red lyrium and the Veil had been torn wide. Telling the Inquisitor it had been real, being disgusted with them for saying they would stop it. It had happened. It had mattered. And ultimately, still undone. They endured a year and died to undo it. But they deserved to be remembered.

And at least the Inquisitor had never questioned whether they were people.

“Will they really never suffer at all?” She inquires instead.

He frowns, “I will remove the Evanuris. They will no longer be a threat to the people.”

“You forget,” She reminds him softly, “the kind of threat the people can be to themselves.”

His face hardens, “I will help them with that too.”

She sighs at him, “I thought you did not believe that people could change.”

His expression twists in alarm but she feels the Fade nudge her and she opens her mouth with a barrage of new questions, and he soon forgets.

Or at least, she pretends he does.

~

It goes like this for many sessions. Back and forth between them, a vast, formless debate, with he aiming to save a lost world and her aiming to save a soon to be lost one.

He cannot fathom why. Sometimes he repeatedly asks her what she is.

Every time she reminds him she will not, cannot, would not say.

And yet.

Their conversations get easier. Excited rounds sometimes arrive between them, or more brittle arguments are smoothed out evenly and sooner.

When she has gotten his attention and he is listening to it, she feels the change. The colors grow richer beneath them and around them. What was once white mist takes on more definite shape and form. The empty pool suddenly has little orange fish - like koi, the girl part of her thinks, not as distant as she once was - who nibble at the top. There is grass under her paws that waves in a breeze. There are soft sounds, occasionally, that flit past - and even scents that fill her senses with the soft Spring wind carrying earth and flowers to her head.

And when he is being stubborn, or difficult, all the senses fade until it feels grey again.

He accuses her once of attempting to manipulate his thoughts by punishing his disagreements and rewarding his concessions using the environment. Later he apologizes.

And it is not as if either of them ever actually win - when one is stumped, they retreat - she has to do it very often - until they return the next time with more arguments and questions at their lips.

Between them she thinks they foster some small frame of friendship. They accept inadequate answers and push for better ones.

The Fade hums and the girl draws closer each time. She slips up. Emotions flit through, and he catches them, but can never hold on long enough to inspect them. Frustration when he’s being difficult, amusement when they are being clever, exasperation when the (seemingly) obvious eludes him, sadness when he ignores her pointedly, ache when she thinks of his future.

She wonders if the Inquisitor will be a Lavellan. Often. As the girl drifts closer, context for her knowledge comes back. Why she knows him, how she knows the future, why she is so invested.

The fact that it is a game means little - for now. It is a bridge, a means of bringing the knowledge between them. That is all.

And then it slips away as their debates grow more heated or fizzle off into companionable - or contemplative - silence.

She doesn’t keep track of how many times it happens.

She just waits for it to end, hoping she can help him before it does.

 

~

 

She is laying across from him, spread comfortably over the grass.

Their talk had reached its critical point a while ago, and they sat adjusting to the new thoughts each had presented for the other to meditate on. Both had stayed, nevertheless, to enjoy each others company. Sometimes he talks of his adjustments. It is hard for him.

The treatment of Dalish were still a shock, she thinks, but she knows he gets upset when she mentions them, so she refrains, selfishly, because she wants to keep their flighty friendship intact. Insofar as she can while trying to convince him not the destroy an entire world. It's a near thing.

“What is this place?” He finally ventures, “It is unlike any other I have ever encountered in the Fade - and there are many wonders I have seen.” He turns to peer into the water, where ripples appear when the fish rise to curiously nibble at a finger before darting away into the depths. She realizes there is no reflexion of him on the waters surface. “Yet I expect I may need to find some other place to contemplate within if you keep appearing when your presence is not wholly wanted.” He adds, a curl to his lips, almost rueful, though she knows she troubles him and he begins to think she might actually wear away at his duty.

He won’t have that.

“But is it wholly unwanted?” She asks.

He sighs, “No, though I suppose I must take it to mean it is completely my fault that you intrude, then?”

The answer rises, granted by the Fade, a small giving sigh in her mind, “You say I intrude, but have I ever visited you when you were elsewhere?”

Quick as a flash, he answers, “No, but that is on account of my skill traversing the Fade.” _Prideful_ , yes, but not truly unwarranted, she supposes.

“Even places that are far easier to find then here?” She presses.

“I - no.” He frowns, then realizes her meaning.

A look of consternation passes over his features, much to her amusement.

“Is it _I_ who has been trespassing this whole time?” He wonders.

She chuckle huffs, “Not quite. I am here because you are open and willing to receive my help. If you weren’t, then you wouldn’t be able to get here and I wouldn’t be able to come. So it is a good thing you are open. It means you can still change.”

“People do not change.” This is said flatly. And she remembers with an unseen shiver the moment she had revealed she knew his thoughts on that.

But they are closer now, and though it is tenuous, she feels she can test their friendship to press on this with knowledge she knows he’ll know she should not have.

She smiles, or does the approximation of so with her wolf head. She suspects he recognizes it regardless, “The fact that your opinion of that will change is good proof that is not true.”

He frowns, “How do you know my opinion will change?” But it is said with the feel of arrogance for it, as one told how they will act seeks to disturb the truthfulness of the statement. _Don’t tell me what to do._ A childish whisper carries through the Fade and reaches both of them. He at least looks a bit sheepish.

 _Rebel_ she somehow manages to think fondly.

“Because it will. You will meet someone who inspires in you the urgent desire to change.”

“Desire to change and ability to change are wholly and completely different things.” He is not intending petulance, but it doesn’t stop him anyways.

She resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“They will give you the excuse that has been lacking from your life so far, then.” She amends. And hopes, fervently, deeply within her chest that in this world, and this time, the Inquisitor is Lavellan, and she loves _him_ , fully and completely as he deserves. Even if he does not know it.

They are quiet for a while.

Then, “Tell me what you are?” He says it so hopefully - and mischievously - that she sticks her tongue out at him.

He slumps and waves a hand towards her, “Bah.” And she swallows laughter.

“Perhaps it has to do with where we are?” She offers finally.

When he asks further and she declines to comment, he sighs, “I suppose I cannot always find it when I search for it on purpose, and sometimes when I wish to travel elsewhere I find myself here.” He admits.

“The Fade knows better than you.” She says vaguely. And cheerfully.

His attempts to hide a snort and is unsuccessful.

She does not resist this time, and laughs bright, flashing canines before she remembers Spirits shouldn’t.

He is still smiling as the dream fades.

 

~

 

The last time feels heavy with weight that had not been there previously.

Ah. Corypheus has the orb, then. Or will soon.

Solas sits, back straight for all that his posture reminds her of a defeated man. As if he is waiting for her to come and chide him. Tell him he is wrong.

Tell him she is disappointed.

He still thinks that very soon he will come to the scattered remains of the darkspawn magister, pluck his unlocked orb from it’s grasp, and neatly rip open the Veil.

He doesn’t know she doesn’t hate him for Corypheus, that he will soon meet them, these wisps of people, who will change the very world he sees.

A woman who changes _everything_.

What then, Dread Wolf? You will break your own heart scrabbling to appease your duty. And he sits there, back ramrod straight. And he has no clue.

All she can do is pity him in that moment.

When she comes to sit before him, she does not speak for a long while, choosing to watch. He bears it until his fingers curl around the staff and turn white from his grip, and he pointedly stares at her. But she remains impassive. He is imagining her disappointment, she expects, thinking she is sending him her disapproval. But he is skilled with his masks. He bears the imagined brunt without complaint.

But when he finally looks into her eyes, he sees nothing.

No judgement, no condemnation.

In fact, when he sees the faith shining in them, _her_ faith in _him_ , she sees the guilt crash over his mask, and watches it shatter under the pressure.

“I am sorry.” He says finally, “I see no other way.”

She says nothing.

He fidgets.

“I truly wish people could change.” He finally offers, “I’m sorry I could not."

She relents a little, then.

“Perhaps.”

He frowns, “What would you have me do?”

“Ask yourself the questions that truly matter.” She says immediately, “Are they truly not people or are they different enough that you refuse to see it on account of how much worse that would make your intentions?”

His expression turns ugly, but not towards her - it is self recrimination, and he turns away.

“People do not change. I will not change. I wish I could, but I have a duty. Sometimes for the good of all, sacrifices must be made.”

“The world will burn. You are only making the same mistake again.” She said sadly.

He does not flinch, but he curls in upon himself in much the same manner, just slowly. “The Veil was wrong. Unnatural. It hurt spirits as much as it did the People. You have suffered for it too. Driven towards a world you know you deserve, but is completely foreign to you. Without the Veil, you would not be destroyed crossing over. You think abominations are better?”

“They are a result of distrust of magic, not the Veil.” She chides, “Attempting to force the Fade and it’s other Half back together would destroy far more spirits than it would people. Or make demons of them. The Veil has become natural. The Fade welcomes it. The new life of this world welcomes it. They depend on it now as surely as the ancient Elvehan once depended entirely on the Fade. They will suffer all the more when you tear it down, but this time you act knowing fully the consequences. It would be a cruelty to unmake it again.”

But the colors have started to fade to greys faint blacks and reaching whites, and she knows with a sinking feeling that he has finally closed himself off from her. These words now fall on deaf ears. She will never see him here again. He has decided that he has decided, but he does not know what is coming. She has to hope better, that she opened his mind to it enough that Lavellan - she begs that it will be Lavellan - can change his mind. That he will see.

The Fade softly brushes beside her. It will be time to go soon. _One more question_ , it murmurs, _just one_.

“Do you have the right?” She says softly.

He looks terribly worn, old as he is meant to, nothing bright, only tired, “No one has the right.” It is an admission hard learned.

“Some do.” The wolf says as it begins to fade, “I hope when the time comes, you listen to your Heart.”

He looks up as the little world fragments, confusion in his gaze. He doesn’t know yet, that she means his Vhenan.

“As for me,” the faint impression of her form murmurs, "I think I am Hope. Or perhaps Faith.”

He casts his gaze around, looking pained, and her will struggles to give him that last part she can.

Her voice in his ear, “If you do not give up on me,” the voice whispers, growing faint, “I shall not give up on you.”

A promise.

And then it is gone.

 

He bows his head but there is no one to see it.

Or so he thinks. 

The Fade sighs, coils slightly as it settles. 

And waits.


End file.
